Annihilation Clash of Destiny

[Domina Prime]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Aether Verd | Renn Vizsla | Aselia Verd | Haro Aven | Korda Veydran | Siv Kryze
Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | Elmindra Xitaar | Madrona A’Mia | Taeli Raaf | Gerwald Lechner | Lina Ovmar | Naamino Zuukamano

Lysander von Ascania ​

L O C A T I O N: Death Star III
G E A R: Starfang | Warpriest Beskar'gam

She was practically aimless at this point. There were only so many troopers and fodder she could terrorize and harass before the amusement dulled, and the towering xeno's interest wandered elsewhere. The halls of the Death Star were still burning from her earlier tantrum, molten walls weeping azure light where her blade had carved through durasteel and flesh alike. The faint scent of ash and char lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp bite of Tihaar on her tongue as she sauntered down the corridor, dragging the edge of her sword along the wall to etch her name into Imperial property.

"Dima was here~," she sang under her breath, each letter carved with a screech and a spark. "Property of no one, definitely not the Empire. Especially not the ones I stepped on."

Her laughter echoed through the ruined passageways, low and musical, until a sharp sound broke through, the sudden, familiar crack-hiss of a lightsaber igniting down the hall. The words that followed, shouted and brimming with venom made her pause mid-step.

"You sing too loud, a drunkard in the dark! A poser dressed in scripture, nothing more!"

Dima froze like someone had just insulted her cooking. All five of her eyes blinked in slow, almost offended disbelief before her head tilted slightly, listening.

"The hell you on about?" she barked back down the corridor, voice booming through the void. "I've only had one drink!"

She threw her arms out dramatically. All four of them! as if to show him she was telling the truth. The motion made the charms and chains on her armor clink like wind chimes. "How about I come put these claws on you, hm? Then you can tell me how 'fake' they are when I'm done~"

Dima gave a short scoff, flashing a grin behind her half-torn mask as she waved those daggered fingers toward him. Her voice carried a purring amusement, half threat, half mockery.

Then, without warning, she raised her blade high and slammed it into the floor, the ship's hull screaming in protest as it split beneath her strength. The impact echoed down the entire corridor like the toll of a war bell. "Hold that thought," she muttered, hooking the Gjallerhorn back onto her hip before stepping forward again. Calm, deliberate, confident.

She slid her mask back over her face with one hand, the other resting lazily on the hilt of her anchored blade. "Drunkard, poser, fake? Dear Manda, you've got a mouth on you. You practice that in the mirror or just shout at yourself until someone listens?"

Her voice softened into a teasing whistle as her stride shifted, first a strut, then a jaunty skip that made her armor clatter with every step. She peeled her tattered cloak from her shoulders with a dramatic flourish, whipping it free like a stage curtain.

"Ohhh, I like you," she taunted, voice lilting with dangerous humor. "Most of your friends screamed and ran. You? You talked back."

The azure glow of her sword painted the smoke around her in ghostly blue as she drew closer and closer to the crimson reflection ahead. The air between them was thick with madness and carnage.

Then she lifted her cloak, holding it out with both upper arms, swishing it back and forth in wide, mocking sweeps.

"Come on then hero!" she barked playfully, her upper hands gesturing him forward like a beast trainer goading her prey. "Let's dance! Ole! you wanted my attention, you got it. Now SHOW me somethin beautiful, come get some!"

Her laughter followed as the cloak snapped in the air, like a matador taunting a charging bull. Warpriest Prime advanced down the hall, each step heavier, hungrier, and far too amused for the apocalypse she was about to bring.

 

[Casaana]

Casaana rolled her eyes, but didn't look away from her override as she ducked her head and pulled the strap of Brandyn's charges across her torso. Men and their machismo...

Numbers scrolled across the display of her handheld, locking into place one after another. She hit the call button after the last one fall into place and felt the turbolift begin its gleeful journey to their floor. Turning to the two as they squared off, she tucked her gear away and redrew her weapons. "More time than we need." She deadpanned before firing more of the tight circular stun bolts at the Sith, knowing that they couldn't be redirected with a block from a lightsaber. In the confines of the control room, she wanted to disable him, but would be satisfied with either forcing their attacker to focus on dodging or pulling his blade out of position for Bradyn to take advantage of.

It went without saying that she didn't trust this Sith, but survive for five minutes? That was an eternity in a duel, even for a Jedi familiar with Form II, which wasn't her strongest form. For a breath between shots, she took a moment to regret letting her saber training slide for 'more practical' lessons. Instead, she took up a basic Form I defensive stance with her green saber while keeping up the pressure with her blaster. She was half expecting Drystan to try and slip past Brandyn to attack her as the weaker opponent.

Brandyn Sal-Soren Drystan Creed​

 

[Darth Avida]

Panther Like a Panther​

Was it her lungs that burned, or was it Krasskorr the Maw 's?

If things had continued as they were she wasn't sure if she'd be able to tell the difference any longer, but he'd shifted things again, altered the flow of combat as he directed his own lightsaber into the walls of the hallway itself. There were few things that she could say she'd heard that matched how unpleasant the screeching sound of his lightclub tearing through the durasteel so quickly, and fewer still that could rival the acrid stench of burning metal that sublimated and wafted up as smoke into the stale, recycled, air, but the change was what she'd been waiting for. It came sooner than she'd anticipated, and perhaps a bit too desperately in her eyes for how advantageous things had started to look for him, but she withstood the spray of toxic spittle that jumped out in front of the sweeping arc of his blade and sucked in sharply despite the burning sensation that clawed at her lungs. She was rewarded with the sight of a red glow crashing towards her hips with punishing speed.

It was now or never, her body moving faster than her mind was willing to translate thought into inner monologue. Her wrists slackened, hands turned, and one elbow dropped abruptly as the other rose so she could turn her saber and guide it into the behemoth's. This wasn't the sort of thing her father would've forced her to prepare for, certainly not the type of reaction her mother would've praised her for, but it was the only thing that made sense in the moment. She wasn't aware of what had driven the change in tactics for her opponent, but she could tell he'd figured out there was something keeping her from fully committing to a saber duel and had pressed the offensive to take advantage of that - if he'd understood that it had more to do with her lack of endurance then perhaps he might've dragged things out a little longer until she exposed an opening herself, but this was the same kind of assault that she'd had to deal with from men that'd thought mere physical strength would even things out for them.

She wasn't stupid, though, and this entire time she knew there wasn't a chance in hell that she'd be able to take him on in a contest of physical strength, and she wasn't about to try her hand at beating him in a saber clash now - at least, not with the goal of overpowering his lightsaber with her own. Her body leaned forwards, her entire bodyweight put into her lightsaber, but her feet quickly left the ground as she drew her knees up and folded her legs shut to draw all of her mass up into her torso. Maybe he'd realize it, but his overwhelming physical strength was exactly what she was banking on. Her mother could lift Avida's entire body with one hand, she wasn't too sure how the two of them compared to each other but she was rather confident that Krasskor could pull it off if he thought she was trying to fight back in the same way she had at the start of their fight.

The goal was simple: she'd "block" his strike, but with her body airborne she'd let him waste his strength trying to push back against her entire bodyweight and either carry her through the air or hold her in place - the moment their lightsabers met she could feel the excruciatingly sharp pang in her wrists and shoulders, not just from the sudden impact of his blade into hers but also from the immediate flexing her biceps and forearms made as she held herself up in the air in a careful balancing act. She wasn't sure how long she could last doing this with strength alone, but she feasted on to the emotions that, until now, she'd let drift freely through the Death Star unperturbed. How she savored the frustration of Quinn Varanin at the circumstances behind her reunion with Ashin Cardé Varanin , and the muscles along her back spasmed with renewed vigor at the pain and death hanging in the air from the fighting that so many others were engaged with all along the massive space station and the shock teetering on dread that permeated the very steel they were enclosed in as Lina Ovmar surmised that a force storm was in the works, but most of all she latched into the desperation of her own foe like a leech to siphon from him what she could all the while she made him work for whatever victory he thought he might have seen coming.

She'd have him snatching defeat from the jaws of victory instead soon enough.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Wearing: Armatura | The Forgemaster's Ring | Ring of Stasis | The Sofitor
Wielding: 8 Nozhi Blades | 2 Whimsy Knifes | 2 Nastirci Combat Knives | Clarion | Copero's Wail | Fire and Smoke | Combat Gauntlets | Tessen | 2 TOTT-001 Arc Light Blaster | 2 Dissuader KD-30 Pistols with Glitter Bullets
Tags: Darth Carnifex CT-312 Dynamis "Dynas" Ultra + open

---

Scherezade raised an eyebrow. Darth Carnifex had a nice voice and all of that, booming and deep like one would expect of a Sith Lord of his stature. He also liked the sound of his own voice. Confidence was always a nice thing, she supposed. Still, there were leagues between what the request was, and what his words said.

She knew these speeches. Had thousands if not more of them in her mind, from when her own grandmother had given them when training her daughters, when speaking to underlings, when manipulating lesser people. For every sentence he uttered, she already had multiple answers to pull from her sleeve, all tried and tested and known to force the dialogue to an end.

But that wasn't the goal, or the point. For once in her life, Scherezade kept quiet instead of spurring a pointless debate. If he was still cool with not trying to kill her once they were done, they could debate the finer points of his words later.

And then it happened.

Darth Carnifex did that thing where he teleported them. She knew somewhere deep inside that the word teleport wasn't the correct one to use, but she couldn't figure out what the correct one was. Not that it mattered. She knew how the body, her body, sometimes reacted when she did something similar through shadows. This was… More intense. Sharper. And made her want to vomit. It was a good thing that today was one of those rare days where she had shown up on a battlefield without her stomach being full of good food, so there was nothing to vomit.

If she ever got to go through it again, she was going to try to keep her eyes closed for those few seconds in which everything shifted.

Kill anyone or anything that moves.

He didn't have to ask or tell her twice. Spilling the blood of others was more often than not a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Scherezade's lightsabers slid into her hands as her knives and swords all slid down and away from her body, fanning around her like the tail of a peacock, pointy ends pointing at…

Nothing.

There was no one there yet.

The Sithling looked visibly unhappy at that.

 

[Valery Noble]

​

Outfit: Jedi Jumpsuit | Wedding Ring
Weapons: Blasters | Lightsabers

Valery met his grin with a quick nod. "Good," she said, voice steady. "We are not here to dance. We are here to cripple that station from the inside."

She pivoted, blade flashing as another squad closed in, and shoved forward through the line. Bolts flew past, sparks stinging the air, but she kept the pressure, carving a path toward a maintenance access bulkhead. Fa-Olan moved at her flank, his strikes measured and true.

"Head for the control node panels," she called as they ran, "Shut down weapon and defense arrays where you can. Disrupt their targeting feeds and their power distribution. Once those systems are blind and slow, we push toward the core."

She caught his eye for a moment, "Keep your focus. Stay with me." Then she was gone, charging into the next cluster of troopers with the Force driving each step.

Fa-Olan Warren Dark Forces
Open to opposition!​

 

[Connel Vanagor]

What is left
UNDISCLOSED
LOCATION - Death Star III

Michael, Gabriel, Azrael, Sariel, Raphael, Jeremiel, Connel, Raguel
[Any text in brackets signifies comm-link usage and not face to face conversation]

Connel had heard the threats and hypocritical statements made by the Sovereign Protector. He heard the wind whistle through his head as they went in one ear and out the other. The Houk was complaining about him doing the very same thing the Sith just had, only offering the Wookiees their own retribution. They were fighting for themselves now, and knew that probably none of them would make it out (though if he had something to say about it, he would make it happen to the best of his ability). They were going to cause chaos of their own, so he could go back to his own form of it. Connel knew that chaos was inevitable, and he intended to use it to his advantage. He would ensure that the Wookiees' fight was not in vain, even if it meant embracing the very disorder he had once sought to avoid.


I am so sick of fighting in environments made of cardboard… never able to fully cut loose… show the Sith how wrong they are about "Jedi Weakness" having to hold back… that’s not happening any more today.


More Stormtroopers were on their way, the comm-link he stole from a fallen one was playing their chatter. So the Shadow ducked into a corridor that, though he did not know it, led straight into an armory.

Though he did not need weapons, he grabbed for one… and then he saw them.

Grenades.

He saw powercells too.

Not a “Lucky Shot”, but it’ll do.


Firstly, a distraction will be needed, and that was the E-web that he turreted to face the corridor and set the trigger, jamming a pistol into the grip in order to keep it firing. Cutting a hole in the ceiling and jumping into the vent, He had one last thing to do and jumped down quickly.

Grabbing a sling and clipping a few to it, he took the last one of the five he was reaching for and pulled the pin… throwing it at powercells and disappeared into the vent.

When Matsu Ike was finished with her fun was when he finally reached her. The effects of the armory having been a memory.

Fun?

Matsu Ike • Dark Forces
Personal Effects - Omega Squad Loadouts - Shadow Sanctuary - Enterprise​

 

[Mar Skirata]

A Clash of Destiny

Death Star III | Supporting the Boarding Action

Equipment: Durasteel plated Mandalorian Armor (Beskar Helmet) | SX-21 Scatter Blaster | Shaped Thermal Detonator Charges | Fusion Cutter | Hydrospanner | Beskar-Headed Entrenchment Tool​

The entry of the Mandalorian Death Watch was flawless. The peerless warriors inserted themselves like a great spear; their lander struck like thunder into the battle station's plating. Unfortunately, among this formidable force was Mar Skirata. Veteran warriors, clan leaders, and Mandalore himself surged past Mar. Mar Skirata, who was likely the last Mandalorian to hit their boots on the Death Star. Someone had to come in last, surely: at least that's what Mar told himself as the disorientation of the battle station's artificial gravity hit him.

He could have enlisted with the Death Watch next week. Nope, fate had decided Mar's first deployment with the most elite soldiers in the Galaxy was to be during one of the most consequential battles in current history; on a battlefield that he needed to inhale half of his prescription just to charge into. His boots slammed on the deck like he was performing the role of a soldier and not feeling the intoxicating thrill of a warrior in glorious battle. Mar wasn't one of those Mandos. Mar fancied himself an average Mandalorian fighter. But the circumstances of his chronic "space sickness" turned a narrow gap in prowess with the other warriors into a yawning abyss.

Skirata knew he'd be feeling like hell. He knew the will to fight didn't surge constantly in his veins. But he was here; struggling, masking, and still here. The Mandalorian was prepared to wage war and preferably die in a way that would honor the armor he wore. Living would be a nice bonus!

"New Blood, into the breach! Sleep when you're dead!"

Whoops. Looks like at least one of the Mandos noticed Mar falling behind. He took the order literally and hastily maneuvered into an ugly looking hull breach that didn't have ample support. Mar attempted to consider the idea that he ought to be organized into a squad with specific orders, but the room spun again. 'Nope,' he thought to himself, 'that's not happening right now. Fighting time, refreshers after.'

Miraculously, Mar managed to soldier into a corridor full of stormtroopers. The squad sized complement turned- Mar raised his blaster- the Empire's finest held up their arms in surrender.

"You- Mando. We're done here. Capture us or enslave us or whatever you lot do, we're done with this."

That might be the second-to-last thing Mar expected. The last thing he actually expected was to find the blast door behind the surrendering stormtroopers crumpled apart like it was paper. The enemy combatants avoided looking at it. Mar stared, and the longer he stared ... the more he was intrigued. 'What in Manda did that?'

Mar composed himself and nodded to the stormtrooper speaking to him. "Enslavement went out of fashion a few millennia ago. But if you're cute, I might put you to work on dad's farm." The surrendering stormtroopers looked at each other after his attempted humor. No laughter. Not only dead silence, but the quiet rumbles of battle temporarily quieted, as if the Galaxy was passing judgement on Mar's sense of humor.

He took the opportunity to tap the side of his helmet, "Are we taking prisoners? Got a couple stormies surrendering and lookin' like they've come out of a horror-themed holo-flic." A chuckle coughed from the commlink in return. Apparently, Mar was a funny guy, just not when he was trying to be.

"Yeah, yeah, we'll sort em' alright. Interesting tactic to split from your squad and follow Prime, Skirata. We'll manage, you just follow the bodies. She might need your support."

Oh, he did have specific orders. And a squad. And he's already blown it. He can't blame that on being space-sick. Mar felt a new pit form in his stomach at these revelations, 'revelations' he was certainly briefed on. The only way he could hope to salvage it was to follow his new directive, following this "Prime." Mar tapped an acknowledgement into the comm and moved forward toward the gaping hole in the blast doors. He roughly patted the shoulder of a stormtrooper as he passed. It wasn't a reassuring gesture, he just needed to stabilize himself after another dizzy spell.

'Prime' sounded familiar. A natural reaction to squirming through the ripped apart blast door would be fear or revulsion. Mar's mind instead whirred as he examined the crumbled plating. To his astonishment, he found not evidence of machinery, but indentations of ... hands? Claws? He needed more time to be certain, time he didn't have but dearly wished he did. Were this an ancient battlefield or salvaging site, he would be enchanted. Alas, he was supposed to be a soldier. The worst Mandalorian commando in this fight, but still a Mando. Still alive. Currently, not dizzy. Small victories.

Aether Verd | Domina Prime​

 

[Helix]

Equipment: Himself
Tags: Lirka Ka / Phaelissia / Da'Razel / Dark Forces​

"Of course, Imperator." Replied Helix diplomatically, turning to follow her. He understood more than his superior might realize: after all, had he not bathed in the outer dark himself, for all those ḍ̴̳̣̝̈́̈́̇͝ḁ̷̲̑̾y̴̰̬̲̅̈́̀̎s̶̳͙̠͑̒͜m̷̲̀̑ȍ̶̠͔͇̰̯́̎͛n̶̨̛̺̹ẗ̵̨̘͇̣͕́̅ḫ̷͌̈s̵͚̭̒̚w̷̛͕͓̥͌̔̎͘e̷̪̣͘e̴̪͌̽ķ̷͈̥͕̩̈́͊͊̕s̷̬̘̣̻͖̎̄ỳ̵̰̪̺̆͆e̶̱͛͐̓͊̾á̷̦͙r̶͚̣̘̖͋̏ͅs̷̱̙̺̝̽̈́e̸͙̺̔ỏ̴̪̙͚̮͐̆̆̚͜n̸̗̗̣̭͑̽̊̕͝s̶̤̉̅̐͆͋? The memory made his consciousness blur for an instant. He still couldn't properly categorize that period of not-time.

Helix was not accustomed to being afraid. He was the sort of being that populates a nightmare's nightmares, but the loss of control one experienced during a timeless, spaceless, borderless imprisonment was a thing of supernaturally-acute fearfulness.

Still, he was a professional, and they were in the field. Now wasn't the time to get into one of their usual spirited debates. There'd be plenty of chances for that after, if there was an after.

Helix bowled along with the other two, one moment a bipedal, bladed horror, another a scurrying, hundred-legged worm, another a cloud of living knives.

He was right on the heels of the rest when the lines met, and Lirka decided to test her luck with someone almost as large as herself. The masked brute the rest called Gazim would keep Lirka busy for a while. Helix was determined to find his own plaything.

With Gazim and Lirka mutually occupied, and Phaelissia trading fire with Kandora, Helix would attempt to scurry around the edges of the skirmish, searching for what they were protecting. Maybe sweeter blood than the rabble's would yet be his to taste...

 

[Revna Marr]

Location: Aboard the Death Star III

SO Tags: Darth Caedes // Srina Talon // Gerwald Lechner // Naamino Zuukamano // Haro Aven // Lina Ovmar
// Elmindra Xitaar // Madrona A’Mia // Taeli Raaf

Others: The Lord of Hunger // Deonis Laythar

Equipment: Lightsaber​

A coldness had settled over Revna, the glint in her eyes hinted at her willingness to unleash destruction and death at a moment’s notice. Her aura shifted from its usual curious, observant nature and into that of a battle hardened warrior. The Warclaw she was in, along with the others, buried itself deep into the hull of the monstrosity that was the Death Star. It was not a pleasant ride; it was jostling and jarring, but this was war - not some fancy ride to a fancy dinner date.

This hiss of hydraulics was their indication that soon, they would step foot within the Death Star itself - and within moments, the hatch that had sealed them within the Warclaw opened to allow them admittance inside their target. Though she had felt the swell of the Dark side before piercing through the hull of the dreadnought, its presence now was so powerful that it felt like a weight pressing down upon her and squeezing her from all sides. It wasn’t quite as strong as some Dark Side nexi she’d visited before, but it was close.

All around her was a sea of writhing agony, of suffering and pain and despair. Her fiery eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she basked in the icy chill that was death that permeated everything, everywhere. Her Void Hunger stirred again, more insistent, scraping along the edges of her sanity and making its presence, its desire, known. A swirl of inky darkness shone in her fiery eyes for a moment, before disappearing once more as Darth Caedes stepped down from the Warclaw. Revna followed along with him without a word, the two Acolytes who had joined them right on her heel. The Empress and the Dread Wolf were there too, as all of them disembarked to begin whatever was necessary to disrupt or even dismantle whatever their enemies were up to.

Through the comms, Lina’s voice reached through to them all - warning them of what was transpiring deeper within the bowels of the Death Star, the ritual taking place to conjure Force Storms, ones of such magnitude that they could rip holes within the Blackwall, and expose the Sith Order’s flanks.

As strange as it was - this didn’t perturb Revna too much; she had little love for the main Sith Dominion as it was, for it wasn’t her true home. But if their enemy could rip holes in the Blackwall in the main territory - then what was to stop them from targeting the Holy Worlds? That was reason enough for her to press onward, reason enough for to be willing to sacrifice whatever she needed to.

"We won't find what we're looking for by chasing our tails in this maze," Srina said to the group, indicating that they should separate to cover more ground. Caedes conceded to the Empress’s wish, and Revna kept in mind the Dread Mother’s command to destroy anything that could hinder their enemies or even damage their precious Death Star.

Revna allowed her gaze to linger upon Srina for a moment longer, a rather strange tug filling her chest. She wasn’t worried about the Empress - she was far more powerful than many truly grasped - but that didn’t stop Revna from feeling a momentary pang of anxiousness at separating from her. It was a feeling she roughly shoved back into dark recesses of her soul, for she had to focus on the task at hand.

The group split up, Revna and the Acolytes joining the Sith King as they made their march deeper into the belly of the beast. Caedes passed along orders to Acolyte Aven to get them to the engines of the monstrosity, or at least into one of the reactor cores or auxiliary generators where they could deal some serious damage. If the ritual of the Force Storms couldn’t be stopped, then perhaps hamstringing their precious battle station would set them back a ways.

As soon as the orders were given, the group was charging ahead - blast doors being sliced open under Acolyte Aven’s experience. The further they went in, the more Revna could feel the dark energy charging the invisible web of the Force. She could feel the ebb and flow of whatever ritual was being conducted - and she could almost hear the frenzied whispered chants somewhere. She could also feel something deeper, darker, existing on the fringes of the ritual - a steady aura of malevolence and cruelty, though she couldn’t quite place from what, or from whom, it came.

It didn’t take long for them to run into resistance. Blaster fire rained down upon them when Aven unlocked another series of blast doors. The Sith King did not slow his place, the plasma bolts seeming to bend around him, distorting as they ricocheted harmlessly into walls or bulkheads or returned to their sender. With a casual flick of fingers and a gesture of his hand, Caedes demonstrated his level of power as the hallway containing the rest of those firing upon him and his retinue crumpled upon them like a crushed can - forever silencing their suddenly terrified screams.

A cloud of dark, raw energy erupted from their sudden deaths, an energy that Revna tapped into to fortify herself and deepen her connection to the Dark side. Her lightsaber hilt slipped into her hand as another blast door opened, and before anyone could do anything, the future Queen’s face contorted with battlerage as she reached out a hand to freeze the first person she saw, before she Force pulled them towards her, feeling the painful prick on her thumb as she gave her blood in order to activate the lightsaber in her hand - its deep crimson blade suddenly piercing through the chest of her first kill. She didn’t stop there, either. As soon as the body dropped, torrents of reddish-purple lightning were extended from one hand to cook a group of others that had managed to fire off only a couple of shots before they were fried inside their armor - her movements flowing with that of her King and lover, as if they had spent years fighting alongside one another.

Exhilaration filled Revna as, together, they slaughtered their enemies with devastating efficiency - and she drank in the elixir of pain, suffering, and death. Darkness coiled like serpents within her ember gaze, and the Void practically screamed to be unleashed so it could feed. She was so sorely tempted - but there was a right place and right time to utilize her Hunger.

Eventually, they reached a deeper point within the labyrinth, guided by Acolyte Aven’s skillful slicing abilities - before Caedes suddenly turned to her. "Something approaches," he said to her, golden and draconic eyes peering into her own. Instantly, she let her senses drift from her - until she sensed it too. It wasn’t a something, it was a someone.

A living presence that marched steadily towards them, its intention felt through the ripples of the Force. A faint and dark smirk tugged on her lips.

"You feel it too?"

“I do, yes. Someone is coming to stand against us.” Revna murmured, her voice a touch deep as it was still laced with her battlelust. Caedes turned to the two Acolytes suddenly as he warned them of their impending company, and commanded them to move faster. Time was of the essence, and it was not on their side. Still, it didn’t much matter to her. She was actually enjoying herself; it had been some time since she’d had a good and proper fight, and had satiated her appetite for death and destruction.

…but was that her desire, or the Void’s? It was hard to tell these days, since the line between herself and the Void had become blurred after the events of Brosi. Revna turned her darkened gaze upon Darth Caedes, her aura deepening in its chill as Darkness wrapped around her further. She could sense the rising tide of the Void, its leeching presence as it tried to make its presence known, and she instinctively latched onto the soul-tether that bound her and Caedes together.

-I could utilize my…gift…here. They need sacrifices to charge their ritual further…I could rip it away from them, hamper their progression, and feed on those they still intend to slaughter…- Came her whisper-voice into the mind of the King, coiling like a serpent. She didn’t know if it would work, as she could sense the ritual was matured, or mostly so. Still, it was an opportunity to be a thorn in their sides.

 

[Dark Forces]

NPC Opposition For:
Sars Sarad | Valery Noble | Fa-Olan Warren
​

Spoiler: tl;dr Action Summary

• Sars Sarad successfully uses the tractor beams to smash two frigates together
• A group of Moon Children are unleashed from a stasis vault to attack Valery Noble and Fa-Olan Warren

--------------------------
​

"Corrector to Death Star," Captain Eryn Zeik repeated, her voice less steady than it had been the first three times she'd tried to get this transmission across, "I repeat, please readjust your aim. We are caught in a station-mounted tractor beam, and are on a collision course with friendly vessels. There is an imminent danger of catastrophic impact." Zeik couldn't know it, but there was absolutely no one to hear her pleas; the comms office for tractor beam control of this little subsector was one of the rooms Sars Sarad had rampaged through.

All of the technicians who ought to have been taking her call lay dead on the deck plating.

"It's got to be some kind of malfunction," Zeik muttered. "The controls are all manual, they can't have been externally hacked... Put me through to the Iron Aegis." The transmission channel changed, and Captain Lennok of the Aegis appeared in front of her, his outline blurred but his face visibly lined with panic. "I've gotten no response to my hails either," Lennok said, before Zeik could say anything. "One of the tractor beam stations has just... gone rogue, somehow. We're caught and headed right for you. I'm giving the order to abandon ship."

"Abandon ship?" Zeik spluttered. "This is madness. There has to be some kind of mistake, or a test, or something. That's the Death Star out there. Surely no part of the Death Star can have gone rogue?!" She turned toward her bridge crew and gave an order that tasted of bitter ashes. "Fire on the tractor beam projectors! Give them a full turbolaser and missile volley, everything we've got. Blast us loose, damn you." She would surely be court martialed for this... but the alternative was to lose her damned ship to friendly fire!

"Too late!" a gunner bellowed, and it was.

The frigates Corrector and Iron Aegis slammed into each other at speed.

Like a child bashing toys against one another, the tractor beams smashed them into a crumpled mess.

--------------------------
​

Fa-Olan Warren was confident that the Death Star was less complicated than a mining colony.

He might soon find himself surprised. The moon-sized station, 160 kilometers in spherical diameter, was divided into decks, each roughly three meters tall. That meant tens of thousands of decks spanning the vast length of the station, divided amongst hangar bays, barracks facilities, mess halls, reactors, substations, prison cells, medical centers, gunnery areas, and countless other purposes. In total, the Death Star contained somewhere in the range of twenty four billion kilometers of hallway - the distance from a typical sun to the outermost planets.

If a person spent eight hours a day walking the Death Star's corridors...

... it would take that poor fool about two million years to walk the full length of all of them.

But the Jedi didn't have to comprehend the station's full complexity, or walk its full length, to find things to smash. If they were looking for weapon and defense arrays, they would find many studding the station's outer decks. Of course, they would also find enemies who sought to prevent them - and the many other saboteurs boarding the battle station - from causing such damage. As they spoke, some such enemies were approaching them... and likely not the kind that they expected. The Death Star III was different from its predecessors in a key way.

It had been built to contain the dark vaults of Darth Solipsis , and all the horrors he had masterminded.

They came around the corner in a ravening tide, frothing at the mouth, their eyes wild and bloodshot. There were dozens of them, nearly naked except for the spiked harnesses and bladed gauntlets they wore. In their gaze was utter madness - the madness of clones grown too quickly, without the time for mind or soul to develop properly. They had been the shocktroops of the Brotherhood of the Maw, the first weapon Solipsis had wielded in his dark quest to burn down the galaxy and forge its ashes into a reality that pleased him. They were the Moon Children.

Why had any of them been kept here, on the Death Star, so long after the Maw had met its end at Exegol? In truth, they were not even the only relics of the genocidal techno-barbarian tribes that had been brought to this sinister place, hidden away in laboratories and stasis vaults for the Church of the Dark Side to study... and to unleash when necessary. Ordinary stomtroopers had done nothing to slow down the Jedi and Sith converging on the Death Star. Now, sheer weight of fanatical bodies had been unleashed to at least delay Valery Noble and her companion.

Drooling, howling, the dozens of Moon Children threw themselves at the pair of Jedi...

... and their faces were the faces of civilians abducted by the Mawites decades past, fodder for the cloning vats.

 

[Siv Kryze]

.

​

DIREWOLF​

​

Equipment: Owl-type Beskar'gam | Spear of Longinus (Beskar Spear) | 2x WESTAR-35 blaster pistol

"Majority of the Death Watch has landed," Siv's voice broke over the comm, filtered through the steady hum of the Anvil's command bridge. The calm in his tone carried a weight that stilled the chatter across the fleet. " Renn Vizsla forces are inside the station. The wedge is holding firm. It's time I join them."


He stood from the command throne, the steel of his boots ringing against the deck. The glow of the holotable painted his visor in flickering blue light — the Death Star, burning from within, outlined in fractured data. His gauntleted hand reached to the side, locking a final set of coordinates into the console.


"Keep the Anvil cloaked until the order is given. No decloaking, no transmission unless we break atmosphere or I command it personally." His gaze cut toward the officer at his right, a hardened veteran of Concordia. "Commander Varyn, you have the bridge. If anything stirs out there, you move the ship to the shadow of the moon and hold position. We can't risk detection until the battle turns."


He paused for a moment — just long enough for his presence to sink into those around him. Then he spoke again, quieter, but the words carried the edge of conviction.


"Clan Kryze stands ready. We'll move to support the Death Watch once we breach the outer decks. Our banners will fly beside theirs before the cycle ends."


Siv turned toward the hangar lift, his cloak catching the artificial breeze of the ventilation systems as he descended. "Tell the men below to prepare my dropship. Mandalore doesn't watch from afar — we lead from the front."


The commline crackled again as he sealed his helmet into place. "For the Empire reborn. For Mandalore."


And with that, the line went silent — the Warden of the Anvil joining his kin in the heart of the fire.

Tag: Domina Prime Aether Verd Renn Vizsla Mar Skirata
​

 

[Korda Veydran]

Korda's laughter faded into a hum as his gauntlet hovered over the rune on his vambrace. The faint blue light flickered against the soot-scored plates of his armor, reflecting in the crimson glow of his visor.

"Time to wake the gods," he muttered.

He pressed the rune.

The station came alive with thunder. Detonations rolled through the decks like a war drum struck by divine hands — one after another, a symphony of ruin. Fire tore down corridors and kissed the hangar bays in molten gold. The floor trembled beneath his boots, and he exhaled, slow and reverent.


"Ha'Rangir's will," he said softly. "Done in flame."

Through the haze, Death Watch warriors turned toward him, some ducking from the shockwave, others staring wide-eyed as the firelight painted his armor.

"Keep sharp!" Korda barked over the comms, striding past them toward the hangar bulkhead. "Charges are live across the upper decks. Anyone without our mark — you cut 'em down. Fast and clean."

A squad of stormtroopers stumbled through the smoke ahead, shouting, blasters already raised. Korda didn't reach for his pistol. He met them head-on.

The first trooper's rifle split in half under a downward swing of his vibroblade. The second went sprawling, helm caved in from the brutal crash of Korda's gauntlet. The last tried to run; his scream ended in a wet choke as Korda's blade carved across his throat.

He stepped over the bodies, breathing slow, deliberate, almost peaceful. "Waste of armor," he muttered, wiping the edge of his blade against a fallen pauldron.

Then he opened comms again, voice steady despite the chaos. "Hangar's clear," he said. "Securing a shuttle now. Should get your wounded clear if you can drag their sorry hides fast enough."

As the bay doors groaned open and the shuttle's ramp descended, he paused — glancing once toward the inferno behind him. "War Priestess Prime," he murmured under his breath, "your will burns bright this day."


He strode aboard, the engines roaring to life. "Kael," he added, tone laced with grim humor. "Your route's lit. Try not to die before I get there — I'd hate to drink alone."

Kael Varnok Lilianna L'lerim

 

[Subject 1503]

ATRISIA, CORE WORLDS
Aboard the Death Star III

Srina Talon
​

If the halting of his blade mere inches from his target hadn't infuriated him, it might have been impressive. The control, the precision that would have been necessary to hold such a thing at bay in such close proximity, it spoke to her skill, to her training - to the years she had undoubtedly spent on the battlefield, wielding the dark side of the force. Yes, she would make for a very suitable sacrifice on the altar of his own ascension.

As she shifted, and his blade went wide, a low growl of irritation left his helmet, and the blade swung in an almost wild slash to recover back toward her, but before it could strike the wave of energy surged toward him, launching his form across the room and into the superstructure of the vessel itself. The walls around him dented and twisted, as if he had struck them with the weight of tons, and yet with barely a moment's hesitation, he began to pull himself from the indent his own body had formed, as if he was hardly deterred by the power she had displayed.

Her words meant nothing to him, they were her own idle ramblings which surely spoke to whatever illusion she saw him to be. Of course, he had been sent to her, whether it was his hidden master or the will of the Force itself guiding him to a victim, but he had not come to her for anything more than a pound of flesh. And he would have it.

Her momentary distraction, the message to the other would-be-Sith aboard the battlestation, the ones who were so lost and helpless without their Empress, was all he needed to recover himself. He was already on the march back toward her, heavy footfalls echoing on durasteel plates before the shrapnel and debris around her lifted and surged through the air toward him.

Stopping, the air around him grew still, and piece by piece, the metal shards slowed as they drew near to him. They advanced still under the efforts of her own anger, but his own force of will resisted, not stopping them completely, but easing their advance. It was only when one of the metallic spikes hovered mere inches from his mask that the air around him surged instead.

Like a sudden and frantic wave, the air around him pulsed and threw the shrapnel pieces every which-way, scattering and ricocheting about the hallway as he advanced toward her again. Whether any of it struck her didn't matter to him, his only goal was to remove an obstacle between him and his prey.

"Your words might drive another to petulence, but they are wasted on me." With a sudden surge toward her, his red blade swung upward again, a carefully-aimed blow that cut right toward her mid-section, followed rapidly by a series of quick flurries and cuts. They were not the fastest of motions, but each had an immense strength behind it, bolstered by the dark side and the wisps of ritualistic energy that clung to him from his own contribution to the church's magicks. Perhaps one, two, or even three of his strikes would miss, but that mattered little.

He would not kill her with a thousand blows. He would only need one.

​

​

​

 

[Ivalyn Yvarro]

​

Location: Otrera, Riflor, Outer Maw Cluster
Day 2: Integration
Objective: Reinforcement | Reclamation

​

DCV Margrave, Riflor's Upper Atmosphere

Tea aboard the Margrave.

Ivalyn Yvarro sat at the head of the conference room, composed yet alert, the image of civilian command amidst the machinery of reclamation.

Arrayed before her, both in person and via secure holo-feed, was a meticulously assembled cross-section of Commonwealth leadership.

From afar, Admiral Gunther Creed, Admiral Aermoira Cyone, and Admiral Tae Sun-Shin flickered to life above the obsidian table, joined by General Ranulph Tarkin, each attending from their respective theatres across Commonwealth space.

Present with Ivalyn in person were the Divans of Governance, Interior, Interstellar Diplomacy and Foreign Affairs, and Intelligence and Security, their portfolios critical in the aftermath of reclamation.

In uniform and at attention stood a cadre of military leadership:

Flight Commodore Salem Tesfaye of the Starfighter Corps
Brigadier Kang of the Marine Commandos
Brigadier Park of the Commonwealth Army
Vice Admiral Julian Colley, representing the Commonwealth Navy, Home Fleet

Behind them stood the tripartite leadership of the Imperial Guard:

High Marshal Kemal Daran of the Akıncı
High General Arif Demir of the Janissary Guard
High General Emir Varlık of the Kapıkulu Guard

Each carried the weight of history and discipline, symbols of the Commonwealth's martial legacy. Along the walls, Ivalyn's personal retinue stood at quiet watch, their presence more symbolic than necessary in such a fortified space.

The room itself spoke with the voice of precision and control.

Its walls were smooth ivory composite, inlaid with dark geometric paneling that lent the space both gravitas and order. The lighting was minimalist — a continuous white line tracing the ceiling and table edges, casting a soft halo that naturally drew the eye toward the room's center.

The conference table was a monolithic slab of matte obsidian composite, its surface embedded with integrated holo-interfaces — designed to serve both as strategic command terminal and diplomatic dais.

Beyond the far wall, a wide viewport offered a breathtaking vista: the curve of Riflor's atmosphere below, awash in orange-pink striation. It was a quiet, visual reminder of the gravity, and grandeur, of the decisions made within these walls.

A large holoscreen shimmered at the far end, framed by the insignia of the Commonwealth: a stylized crest bordered in laurel. Across it scrolled the words:

Connecting - Please Stand By...

And then, clear as day, the figure of High Basileus Kelora Priestly appeared.

The soft hum of the environmental systems was the only sound, keeping the air crisp and temperate. Reflections of distant starlight glinted across the obsidian table, lending the room a ghostly serenity, a haunting contrast to the immense pressures that had already begun to take shape.

 

[Lysander von Ascania]

Leidimas Sith Plate | Disciple's Helm of Devotion | Bevelle-class Light Freighter
Domina Prime

​

"The hell you on about?" she barked back down the corridor, voice booming through the void

Lysander had been wondering the same fething thing since the day he first drew breath.

The corridor was very much alive with her tantrum. He heard the clink of her chains, the scrape of her blade etching a name into walls as if were her diary. It was noted how the azure glow of her weapon painted the air in ghostly hues, but his eyes never wavered, perhaps even savoring whatever spectacle this may be.

Banter or not, power coursed through his fingers, curling tighter around the curved hilt like a deadly promise. With a squared stance and set shoulders, chin dipped, he studied her patiently. During her protest, he couldn't help but curl his lips into a twisted expression under the helm, part sneer, and part deranged smile, forever reveling in the chaos.

“I’ve been on about this since the cradle. Since the first scream I ever heard in this cursed galaxy.”

Claws flashing, armor jangling, it was as if she thought the entire Death Star were her audience. Lysander’s head titled. ”Every poser has claws. Don't worry. I’ll carve the truth from you myself.”

The deck shuddered, a weapon striking it echoing through his boots like the toll of a war bell. He did not flinch. The teen welcomed the jolt, feeling it reverberate through his chest until it only became one with the steady beat of his erratic heart. His thumb brushed against the ignition stud, and the crimson blade hissed to life once more, the glow painting his obsidian armor in blood light.

More theatrics ensued. The strutting, the skipping. So, the smirk deepened as he watched, taking in the spectacle of this rare creature before him, for she talked almost as much as he did, a dangerous and even unpredictable quality that instantly set her apart from the rest. Somewhere, in the darkness of his mind, he realized this one could be a formidable ally.

Or a formidable enemy.

And either way, he was intrigued.

He was already advancing, boots striking the deck in a smooth rhythm. “I condemn the carnival even as I perform in it! You talk too much, and so my tongue does too. You perform, and so do I. We are mirrors, beast! And I hate you for it!”

Maybe she believed herself to be luring him. But the truth was, he had already chosen this path the moment he heard her annoying voice.

With rehearsed flourish, his blade swept wide, slashing and carving deep into the wall as he closed the distance, a shower of sparks flying between them.

“Every carnival ends in fire.”

But that act was not enough.

As always, theatrics had their place.

Violence always demanded fulfillment.

Finally, his lithe frame coiled, then released. The saber swept forward in an arc. It wasn’t wild, nor was it reckless, but a duelist’s strike meant to test the defenses. It cut through the smoke, not to kill, but to draw her out, and to see how she moved. Shoulders rolled with that motion, the strike flowing like a ritual.

“This is the last song you’ll ever dance to!”

​

 

[Krasskorr the Maw]

FOOD: Darth Avida

​

Krasskorr observed her movement, as rather than jumping, her wrists performed a swift action that directed her saber's blade to intersect with his. Then her feet abruptly lifted off the ground as Darth Avida levitated in the air, utilizing his enormous lightsaber as a makeshift platform.

He experienced the complete resistance of her body as their lightsabers collided, followed by a sudden surge of dark side energy flooding the corridor. He had anticipated that she would be pushed back by the sheer force of his swing. Instead, he found himself ensnared in a gravity-defying stalemate, ultimately leading to a trap.

He recognized this far too late as he sensed the force being drawn from his body, a draining feeling that was subtle yet unmistakable in its leeching power. She was wielding his own anger and hatred against him, which was unbearable, as thoughts of sorcery once again invaded his mind amidst the pain and physical fatigue.

With a guttural snarl that was lost in the sizzle of the two blades, Krasskorr violently dropped the pivot point of his lightclub. He ceased the forward momentum, allowing the giant, circular sweep to collapse downward. The goal was to break the connection and force her plummeting to the ground.

As the blades separated, Krasskorr used the remaining momentum of his failed spin to whip his massive tail forward and up. The thagomizer, the cluster of heavy, sharp spikes at the tip of his tail, typically reserved for crushing bone flashed in a blur, aiming directly for the suspended, falling target.

It was a final, desperate burst of energy, relying on a move that was too fast, too low, and too brutal to be blocked by a falling opponent. His fatigue was irrelevant now; this was the strike he had prepared for, and it had to land.

 

[Kyrothian Ravoch]

Wrath of God

Acier Moonbound ​

To his credit, the non-Padawan was uninterested in talking. Ravoch was well aware of how that conversation would have ended. Calm yellow eyes watched his knuckles turn into a bright shade of white as the Force surged around the Rebel. Raw power held on a loose leash - it was only a matter of time before he would lash out. "What is your plan? Are you going to strike me down?" The calm tone carried an obvious mocking undertone.

Then it came. They were close when the two-pronged attack was launched. A screeching cry of metal being bent and torn asunder sounded as Ace created something to throw at the Lord whilst also swinging his blade in a wide arc. If Ravoch had decided to defend against the metallic object, it would have been hard to catch his smaller foe's arm mid-swing - but he did not. With an aggressive step forth, his bare arm shot out from behind his back to grab his opponent's saber arm before it gained enough momentum to be a threat. Meanwhile, a loud clank sounded as the metallic object that had been torn from the floor hit Ravoch's armoured arm. Where such an impact would have knocked most people over from the sheer force of impact, the Lord did not even flinch as his armour plate buckled against his arm.

Whether he managed to catch the swing mid-air or interrupted it with a shove, Ravoch's eyes would fall onto those of his foe with a smug sense of satisfaction. But he would not hold on to the arm, even if he managed to catch it. No, if the ashen-haired Rebel wanted to lash out, the Sith seemed more than happy to oblige. Using the brief pause that would ensue, he summoned his lightsaber once more, allowing it to hiss to life.

A familiar series of attacks followed: Well practiced sweeps of Form I and powerful cleaving motions to break through guards, typical of a Form V practitioner. A bored glance was sent Ace's way as the Lord went on the defensive, blocking the wide sweeps and taking a step back to redirect the energy of the heavy cleaves. It was obviously an approach he was comfortable dealing with as his own manoeuvres carried the elegance and economy of a Makashi practitioner. Even then, he was steadily losing ground to the push. Step by step, metre by metre, his footwork carried him closer to the collapsed catwalk behind him.

So far, the Sith's defence had been passive, surprisingly so. Where one could usually expect a riposte, he offered little more than a slight shift to anticipate the next attack while his armoured arm had remained idle at his side. This would change in a flash. When a heavy Djem So strike came barreling down at him, Ravoch suddenly raised his saber to block it - a feat of strength and control in its own right. He paused for a sliver of a moment, letting his piercing gaze settle on his foe.

Effortlessly, the Lord launched a flurry of three quick thrusts to retake swaths of lost ground and to create some space between them. "You are no better than a crazed Kath Hound." his dry tone was as sharp and condescending as ever. Ravoch shook his head as he circled his foe with measured steps. "I know now, why you aren't a padawan. The Jedi won't have you. You are too undisciplined. You have fallen too far. You are just like me." a vicious smirk spread across his lips. The taunts were obvious. He wanted his foe to lash out. With a slight shake of his head, he let out a low "No. You are worse than me. Isn't that right?"

If the Rebel wanted to talk, Ravoch would talk - but if he rushed into action again, he would look for even the slightest opening. If presented with one, he would reach out through the Force to bend it to his will. His seemingly impossibly strong arm, wearing dark and dented armour plates would rise from his side. Where it had once been passive, his open palm clenched into a tight fist as a telekinetic force pushed against his foe from all directions, eventually threatening to pull his feet off the ground. With a quick flick, he then tried to fling his foe aside with enough power to crash through grates, shafts and even walls.

 

[Domina Prime]

I HEAR THIS VOICE KEEP ASKING ME
IS THIS MY BLOOD OR IS IT BLASHEMY?

Mar Skirata | Aether Verd | Renn Vizsla | Aselia Verd | Korda Veydran | Siv Kryze
Darth Caedes | Revna Marr | Elmindra Xitaar | Madrona A’Mia | Taeli Raaf | Gerwald Lechner | Lina Ovmar | Naamino Zuukamano Haro Aven

Lysander von Ascania ​

L O C A T I O N: Death Star III
G E A R: Starfang | Warpriest Beskar'gam

The distance was closing now.

And the closer she got, the quieter her madness became. His words rolled off her like droplets against iron, for she was a woman of god now. The childish musings, the taunts, the laughter. They were amusements for the waiting, the wandering. But this? This was communion.

A holy moment. A duel she hoped would be worthy of song.

Her pace slowed from that playful skip to the deliberate stride of a predator finding purpose again. The clank of her boots and the whisper of her chains filled the corridor like war drums and choral hymns.

He had called her out. Her, The Horseman of War, Warpriest Prime. And he had done so without trembling. For that alone, she could not hate him. Oh no. That earned him her full attention.

And as his crimson blade carved into the walls, molten sparks painting them both in twin halos of blue and red, her many eyes dilated behind the mask, drinking in the spectacle like fine art. "Oh, so you can sing," she purred, low and husky, voice echoing through the metal. "Good! Let's see if you can dance too."

He swung, his saber slicing through the smoke in a wide, practiced arc meant to test her mettle.

And that was when the matador's curtain fell.

With a dramatic flourish of her cloak, Dima swirled it wide, catching the crimson blade across its length. The saber hissed, the fabric searing but refusing to burn. The runes stitched into the cloth flared briefly, glowing faintly gold. old faith made manifest. Before dimming once more. The impact reverberated through her arms, but her laughter only deepened.

"Slow, Simple...senile~" she sang through the smoke.

The cloak dropped from her claws, and she was gone.

The air rippled, the deck groaned. Then, from his left there was movement.
A blur of azure light and shifting limbs.

She surged forward with unnatural speed, her four arms moving in a blurring rhythm as her knees coiled like springs. Launching upward, she twisted midair and came crashing down toward him with enough force to rattle the floor beneath them.

"Peek-a-boo, mother KARKER!" she snarled right into his ear, voice dripping venom and delight in equal measure.

Her knee crashed forward toward his ribs, a strike meant to test his reflexes as much as his spine. One clawed arm shot out to intercept the saber hand, ready to wrench or crush depending on his reaction. Her tail lashed low across the ground, sweeping in a vicious arc toward his legs like a living whip.

The moment her feet found floor again, the flurry began.

She pivoted, weight shifting seamlessly from one leg to the other, one of her lower arms deflecting, one striking, another reaching. The hooked blades at her feet tore through the air, each kick accompanied by the guttural hum of her armor's servos straining to keep up with her speed.

Low kick to the ankle. Snap kick to the knee. Twisting roundhouse that could have decapitated a lesser man.

"Come on then!" she jeered between strikes, her voice reverberating through the hall. "Try not to lose your head!"

Every motion was a sermon, every blow a prayer to Ha'rangir.
And as her laughter filled the corridor again, wild and exultant, it became clear that this was not mere battle. It was worship.

If she was a poser and a fake, then no one had given her the memo.

Because if divinity had a sound, it was the rhythm of her claws carving through fire and steel.

Hail to the one true god~

 

[Darth Ayra]

---

---

Atrisia, Core Worlds;
The Galactic Empire.
Tags: Onrai | The Lord of Hunger

---

​

OBJECTIVE II.

Darth Ayra looked between the two of them. The moment was there: to draw upon her Lightsaber, and the arcane powers of the Dark Side of the Force, to commit murder. Their deaths would not only satiate the ritual happening elsewhere aboard the Death Star but would also consequentially prevent them from affecting the plans of the New Sith Order and it's dark master. The act of murder would eradicate two Sith also. So easy, so simple. But the path is not so straight forward as that, particularly, if one follows the tenets of the Dark Side itself.

Always conceited, this one.

The darkened corridors of the Emperor's ultimate weapon seemed to disappear for Ayra as she stood there. Seconds turned into a minute. Why hasn't she struck them? The Force swirls around the Sith Master, and around her, Ayra could almost see the currents of the Dark Side powers that Vinaze (and the others present at the ritual site) had created. A powerful maelstrom of energy that, although she could not see it physically, was already warping the rain torrent skies of Ossus. A minute turns to two. Nothing has happened.

Is it cowardice? Does the idea of fighting this Demi-God, and her cohort from the Sith Ascendant Order, make Ayra scared?

A long, extraordinary amount of time passes. Others would have acted by now. The fighting should be in full swing. A throng of Lightsabers clashing, and the whir of mechanical limbs as the Sceleratis were propelled into action. A claim for supremacy, and the conclusion to a grudge match between former Master and Apprentice, as one or the other claimed revenge upon the other for transgressions stretching back to a long, distant past when Alicia Drey and Circe Savan had traversed the Galaxy together in a union that was meant to be perfect and ultimately ruined by betrayal.

Ayra turns, and the moment of perception into the Force passes, giving her way back into these darkened corridors. The murderous Sceleratis are ready to go as is their master. Death is always a constant ally of the Sith. A true follower does not fear it, but embraces it. Has Ayra finally overcome her cowardice, her fear, of the moment? Two years of esoteric signs, and signals, planted in the view of all those manipulated, and deceived into a conspiracy has led to this revelation aboard the third coming of the Death Star. It should be a fight to the death. A Sith deals in absolutes.

The annuals of the Star Wars have long told of those moments. A clash between ideologies, and feuds, on the off-drop of catastrophe, and ruination for the loser, and salvation for the victor. The very fabric of the galaxy stands on the precipice of great change if the Dark-Imperials win today, and Ayra could play her part well. Why hasn't she struck yet? It must be cowardice. She must be scared. Outnumbered.

Boots clack upon the polished floors of the corridor as Ayra turns and walks away. Her presence in the Force disappears.

Gone.

[ END POST ]
​

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